


Of Course It's Important

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [145]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Ianto Jones, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Nonverbal Ianto Jones, Protective Jack Harkness, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, absolutely - Freeform, am i still projecting?, can be platonic or romantic you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25938565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Ianto has been there almost since the beginning. Before most of them can remember. He makes the Hub a home, makes it comfortable, makes it so most of them don't even have to ask if they need something.He passes unseen.That can be risky business.
Relationships: Gwen Cooper & Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper & Jack Harkness & Owen Harper & Toshiko Sato, Gwen Cooper & Owen Harper, Gwen Cooper & Team Torchwood, Gwen Cooper & Toshiko Sato, Ianto Jones & Team Torchwood, Ianto Jones & Toshiko Sato, Jack Harkness & Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Lisa Hallett/Ianto Jones, Owen Harper & Ianto Jones
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [145]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	Of Course It's Important

**Author's Note:**

> yes i promised i'd fix it 
> 
> yes i'm still projecting

Fandom: Torchwood

Prompt: Please sequel to fix it??? plssssssssss - Oddcreature

Absolutely amazing, would love to read a follow up where he gets the love and attention he needs and deserves, but no pressure! - CaptainAwesome242

* * *

The room still smells of bleach.

Ianto lets his shoulders slump as he sits in the chair he’d brought down here ages ago, underneath the security camera so no one has to know he’s in here. Even now, after the room’s been scrubbed clean, he can still smell the bleach, see the blood.

Well, he can’t really _stop_ seeing the blood.

He’s torn, honestly, about whether or not someone would know where to find him, honestly. Part of him knows that he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is and they know exactly where Ianto comes to sit. Part of him thinks they don’t know, because they don’t care.

It happened once; he left them deliberately just to see whether they’d notice.

They didn’t.

He left for a few hours. Went out for a walk. Well, went out to the edge of the water a few miles away and sat there, waiting for his mobile to ring or something, maybe—he scoffed at himself when he thought of this—maybe they SUV would come screaming up, all of them frantic he’d gotten himself hurt. He thought maybe the yelling wouldn’t be so bad after that because he could soothe it with the knowledge that they cared enough to be angry.

They hadn’t even realized he was gone.

He didn’t try too much after that.

Plus, it’s not like there would be any consequence to it. They know all they have to do is call his name or click their fingers or even just _imply_ that they need something done and Ianto will be there, ready as always. That’s his job, after all.

The smell of bleach, Ianto decides as he pulls his legs in, does not, in fact, get easier or more bearable the longer he sits in it. Oh well. He’s sure he’s better at it than the others, aside from maybe Owen. He’s in charge of cleaning everything, after all.

He likes sitting alone. It’s nice. There’s no one around to tell him to stop mumbling to himself when he needs to make noise, no one around to tell him to stop tapping his fingers, no one around to politely ask him to go somewhere else.

No around to tell him to shut up and stop crying.

It’s nice.

He really should bring a box of Kleenex down here or something, shouldn’t he? But then he’d need a bin, and really he doesn’t want there to be anything more in here than there absolutely has to be.

He’s got his handkerchief, that’s enough.

The other nice thing about the room is how sound-absorbent it is. Ianto could probably scream his head off and they wouldn’t hear him. Well, they’d hear him on the camera if they were paying attention, but they aren’t, are they?

He doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, really, he doesn’t. He knows it’s not their fault. Really.

He’s gotten very good at disappearing. It was a useful skill to have, to the point where it was enough for other people to introduce him. After all, they knew how he could be the most useful and that was always nice.

He doesn’t hate them. He can’t. How can he?

He admires Tosh’s intelligence and her devotion to making herself heard.

He admires Owen’s confidence and the way he is unapologetically him.

He admires Jack’s charisma and the way he can take over a room in an instant.

He admires Gwen.

For being everything Ianto can’t.

Wow, he really is selfish, isn’t he?

That’s another thing Ianto’s noticed, if he can make himself laugh, crying gets a little easier.

* * *

“Where the hell is that blasted tea boy?”

Tosh looks up from her station. “I don’t know, maybe he’s gone out.”

“Well, where the bloody hell did he go?” Owen tosses a rag onto the table. “I need a blasted coffee yesterday.”

“You know,” Gwen remarks from where she’s reading a file, “it’s not rocket science.”

“You expect me to believe there’s not some sort of witchcraft going on when Ianto makes coffee?”

“So you do remember his name.”

“‘Course I remember his bloody name, he almost killed all of us.” Owen stomps up the stairs. “Ianto!”

“What are we screaming about,” Jack asks, poking his head out of his office and coming downstairs, “something wrong?”

“Owen’s missing his coffee,” Gwen stage-whispers, making Jack laugh.

“Dunno why you’re laughing,” Owen grumbles, “your biggest security threat’s just gone missing.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Then let’s find him.”

Tosh rolls her eyes but gets to work, scanning the CCTV and flipping through the footage for any sign of Ianto. The rest of the team throws little jabs back and forth, not worried.

Then they get worried when Tosh starts to go _back_ over the footage, her brow starting to wrinkle.

“Tosh?”

Tosh shakes her head. “Jack, I can’t see him.”

“What do you _mean_ you can’t see him,” Owen asks, “did he really leave?”

“Not that I saw,” Tosh murmurs, “and all the cars are accounted for.”

Jack frowns, glancing at Gwen before joining them by Tosh’s station. “Scan for him.”

“That’s what I'm doing!”

“Where the hell is he?”

“How did he leave?”

“Is he still in the Hub?”

Jack curses under his breath, snapping open his comm. “Ianto?”

“Sir?”

At the Welshman’s voice, the whole team relaxes, Tosh slumping against her seat.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the Hub, sir.”

“Come upstairs, we need you.”

“On my way.”

Jack snaps the comm shut and glares at the stairs, daring Ianto to walk up them with his suit neatly pressed, smile on his face, tucking something neatly into the collection of files in his arms.

He does, not two minutes later.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Ianto says easily, smiling at them, “had something to take care of.”

“Yeah, well,” Owen grouses, coming up to clap Ianto roughly on the shoulder, “now you’ve got something else to take care of.”

“Coffee?”

“You’re a genius.”

Ianto rolls his eyes and gently sets down the stack of files. “Does anyone else need a cup?”

“Er, yeah, Ianto, I’ll take one.” Gwen elbows Tosh who startles.

“No, no, thank you, I’m—I’m fine, Ianto.”

Ianto doesn’t comment on the stammer, simply looks at Jack. Jack shakes his head, making to go back upstairs when he…sees something.

If there are two things he knows for certain about Ianto Jones, it’s that the man makes a damn fine cup of coffee and he never lets himself look less than completely pressed in a suit.

And the one he’s wearing today is _immaculate._ Suits him—heh—to a tee, charcoal-grey wrapped around his body like he’s the only one made to wear the color. Splash of dark red underneath, sleek black tie…

_That’s harassment, sir._

But there’s something wrong with this one. Right near his wrist, where the cuff of the suit pulls back just a little as he raises his arm, is a blot. It’s orange, rough, discolored. Moves a little differently from the rest of the fabric. It’s hardly going to take away from the _rest_ of his appearance, but…it’s there. And he knows what causes that kind of stain.

Bleach.

He doesn't follow Ianto down to the archives, but he pulls up the CCTV footage of the corridor leading to the room where Ianto kept Lisa. He made sure to install one in the corridor and in the room after everything and he has an alert programmed to sound if someone tries to destroy them.

He doesn’t see Ianto on the one inside the room. So he swings himself out of his chair and makes to go downstairs when he hears it.

It’s quiet.

It’s so quiet that for a moment Jack thinks it’s just an audio glitch.

Then he hears it again and he eases his way back into the chair, frowning at the screen, listening intently.

It’s muffled. It’s quiet. It’s unobtrusive. It’s hidden. Jack has to close his eyes and strain to hear it.

It’s crying.

Right now, in a room far away from everyone else, in a room that holds more ghosts than anywhere else, with a hand clamped over their mouth, someone is crying.

Jack’s not going to lie, he’s got pretty thick skin. He’s had to grow some, what with…everything. Not much makes him hurt like that anymore.

But this…this _hurts._

Because it’s _Ianto._

He can hear Owen’s pissed-off muttering, can see Tosh’s slightly nervous expression, can even _feel_ Gwen’s look at the thought of being concerned about Ianto. And honestly, he can’t blame them.

Ianto was ex-One. Ianto came from Canary Wharf. Ianto kept a Cyberman in their basement.

He remembers the vicious satisfaction he got from telling Ianto he wasn’t his problem. He remembers the borderline sadistic grin he had when he made Ianto do the most demeaning tasks, made him _beg_ to be let in the door.He remembers the bitterness of being right when he held the gun to Ianto’s head.

But what made it so much _worse_ is Ianto never complained. Never once. He cleaned up after them with a gentle smile. He made their coffee and ordered their food. He ran the place like it was his own and he was _damn_ good at it. And whenever they stumbled, fell, got caught under the merciless wheel of Torchwood, he was there, with a soft hand, a firm voice, the offer of a cup of coffee, and a cab to take them home.

Jack may be the one living at the Hub, but Ianto made it feel like home.

* * *

When did Ianto become invisible?

When did they stop realizing he was there?

When did the room start feeling empty with him in it?

When did they stop seeing him?

Did they ever see him?

Jack certainly didn’t, not nearly as well as he thought he would. He saw Torchwood One, he saw desperation, and he saw something useful. Then he saw security threats and penance.

Tosh didn’t. She saw soft smiles, a sympathetic ear, someone she could talk to when the chaos of Torchwood became too much. She saw a work friend.

Owen didn’t. He saw an endless supply of coffee and an easy target. He saw another person to take care of and a steady pair of hands.

Gwen didn’t. His mask was perfected by then.

* * *

The chair squeaks a little when he sits down. He shifts his weight and it’s not any better, the sound echoing and doubling back until he winces from it and resolves not to move.

It’s one of those days where he just can’t speak. The words don’t want to come out and his tongue feels like it’s huge, swelling and swelling until there’s no room for anything else in his mouth. That’s okay. It’s not like he needs to speak anymore today.

Honestly, he’s kind of impressed with himself. He’s gotten it down to a tee where he just has to make affirmatory noises every few pauses and tilt his head a little. Sometimes huff a laugh. It’s quite handy.

Not that there’s anyone to impress here.

They’ve gotten a rift call and the team is off. Ianto’s alone in the Hub and even more alone in this chair. Then his comm rings.

“Turns out we got another one, folks.”

  
“Already? We just got finished with this one!”

“Bloody Rift.”

“Ianto, we need you out here too. Grab a car and meet us.”

He can’t speak. Can’t move. Unhinges his jaw. “Yes, sir.”

The comm rings off. Silence. Silence. It’s so loud. It’s so much nothing. He needs to move. He needs to go. They need him. He has to go.

The door opens.

No. No!

Jack stares at him. Face blank. No. No, no he has to leave.

He comes inside. Shuts the door. Looks back.

“See, now I’m wondering how many times you’ve replied and been like this.”

Jack walks towards him. As he goes, he begins to tug off the greatcoat and holds it out in front of him, shaking it open like a blanket. Crouching down, he leans forward and carefully, _carefully_ drapes it over his shoulders.

_Wait, no, I can’t,_ he tries to push it off but Jack holds it firmly in place.

“Shh,” he hums, reaching up for his comm. “Can the job be finished with a three-man team?”

“Probably,” Tosh says.

“You three take care of it. I’ve got something to take care of.”

“But Jack — “ Gwen’s voice cuts in over the comms.

“ _Go._ ”

“Copy that, Jack, we’re on our way out.” Jack barely hears Tosh’s affirmative. Deftly, he reaches upwards and plucks out his and Ianto's comm.

He doesn’t know what to do.

Ianto is sitting in a chair that he took from one of the abandoned rooms in the place where he kept a Cyberman under his teammate's noses, his nose still all stuffed up, his boss’s coat is draped over his shoulders, and his boss is standing in front of him.

He doesn’t know what Jack wants.

He doesn’t know what Jack wants when he crouches slowly in front of him, holding out a hand, palm up.

He wants to take it. He _really_ wants to take it. He wants to throw himself in Jack’s arms and sob and cry and beg for something, anything, just for them to _know._ He wants to tell Jack everything, why he’s like this, how much he hates them, how much he hates himself for hating them. He wants—he _wants—_

And that’s why he can’t move.

He’s not supposed to want.

That’s selfish of him. He’s not there to _want._ He’s there to help. He’s not supposed to take things from them, much less things that aren’t supposed to be his. He’s not Owen, he’s not Tosh, he’s not Jack, he’s certainly not Gwen. He knows if he takes Jack’s hand, he’ll get something but it won’t be enough. He’ll want more and more and he’ll never be satisfied with whatever they choose to give him and he can’t do that. To them or to himself.

Better to sit here, paralyzed with want, then to whet his appetite and forever go hungry.

* * *

Jack aches.

He has no idea how Ianto isn’t falling apart right now. He can _see_ it, now that he’s looking, now that he’s ambushed Ianto when his walls are down, he can see the pain and the heartbreak and the _want_ coursing through him. He can see it in the way Ianto holds onto himself, staring at Jack’s hand like it’s a trap.

He likes to think of himself as a patient man, and if Ianto were doing this out of stubbornness, he likes to think he’d’ve won. But he’s not.

Jack’s starting to wonder if Ianto is capable of doing something like that.

Ianto’s punishing himself, he realizes in horror, maybe he always has been. But Ianto, right now, sitting in this chair, in the room that reeks of bleach and demons, is punishing himself by looking at Jack’s hand with the desperation of a man dying of thirst, and refusing to let himself take it.

He wanted Ianto to ask. Or to do it himself, reach out and take Jack’s hand. He wanted Ianto to reassure himself that Jack’s there, that he’s not going anywhere. He wanted Ianto to give himself that permission, to be _human,_ to allow himself to fall apart and be caught by someone who cares about him.

But he also wants Ianto to know he’s _here,_ that he _sees,_ that he’ll take care of him. That thought alone makes him break and reach out to gently tangle his fingers with Ianto’s.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “ _hey,_ Ianto…”

Ianto barely twitches.

“Ianto, look at me.”

Jack’s brow furrows when Ianto shakes his head.

“No? No, you can’t look at me?”

“Sorry.”

That one whisper, horrid and strangled as it is, is enough to make Jack give in immediately.

“That’s okay,” he soothes, “you don’t have to look, can you just…can you hear me?”

He gets a small nod.

“Can you speak anymore? It’s okay if you can’t,” he adds quickly. When Ianto shakes his head, Jack tugs his hand a little closer to him. “Okay. That’s okay, Ianto. I’m just going to sit here with you for a little, okay?”

He knows if Ianto tells him to, he’ll leave. Ianto has every right to throw him out of this room. He also knows _Ianto_ doesn’t know that.

He eases himself down onto the floor, slowly, carefully, as he takes Ianto’s hand in his, playing with it gently. Running his fingers over the back, tracing his knuckles. He taps the tips of his fingers, threads his through Ianto’s with small ‘come hither’ motions until they slip out again. Trails long caresses over his palm.

Even here, Ianto’s scared of doing something wrong. His fingers tremble, try and match the shapes he makes. Movement catches his eye and he looks up to see he’s hugged himself tightly with his other arm, curled about his waist.

A second later and Ianto’s stomach growls.

Jack lets himself smile a little. “Hungry?”

Ianto nods.

“Come on, there’s something upstairs.”

Coaxing Ianto to his feet is nowhere near as hard as he expected, getting him to follow even easier. Ianto moves almost robotically, obeying Jack’s gentle touches and guiding hands until he’s leaned against the kitchen counter, a warm mug cupped in his hands. The coat stays draped over him.

Jack sets a small plate in front of him with snacks and takes Ianto’s hand again.

“Are you nonverbal today?”

Judging by the way Ianto’s eyes widen, he wasn’t expecting that. Jack smiles ruefully.

“Should’ve put that together a while ago,” he murmurs, reaching up to wipe a tear away from under Ianto’s chin, “should’ve put _a lot_ of things together a while ago.”

He cups Ianto’s chin carefully. “So, nonverbal?”

Ianto nods.

“Okay. Is it alright if I keep touching you?”

Another nod.

“Good. Now, I’m not entirely sure what will help you the most—“ Jack holds up a hand— “and that’s not _your_ fault, it’s mine, but can I ask you a few questions?”

Ianto closes his mouth and nods.

“Have you eaten something today?”

Ianto closes his eyes, thinking, then slowly nods.

“Have you drunk something other than coffee?”

He shakes his head. Jack fetches a glass of water and comes back, rubbing his thumb along Ianto’s cheek again.

“Is this okay?”

_Please, Ianto, please let this be okay._

He can’t stop the relieved smile when Ianto nods. Belatedly, he wishes it were still the 51st Century and he could swoop in, kiss Ianto until the other man melts, let him be _soft,_ let Jack make him feel _safe…_

But this isn’t the 51st Century, and poor Ianto’s looking overwhelmed by just _this,_ just Jack’s thumb tenderly stroking his cheek. He can’t _imagine_ how much this must burn.

“Ianto,” he calls softly, “Ianto, can you—oh… _oh,_ you poor thing…”

Ianto’s crying again.

It’s quiet, it’s _so quiet,_ Jack has to actually _look_ at him to tell he’s crying. The tears burn Jack’s thumb, so soft, so _scared,_ and Ianto’s eyes are shut tight and he’s biting his lip like he’s going to tear through it.

“Don’t,” Jack’s hushing before he knows it, reaching up to run his thumb lightly across Ianto’s mouth, “don’t do that, sweetheart, you’ll hurt yourself, come on, let go…”

Ianto listens. No…no, he doesn’t. Ianto obeys.

That’s enough to break Jack’s heart.

“Oh, Ianto…”

He can’t help it. Never could when it came to Ianto. Couldn’t help hoping he’d show up again with a new cup of coffee. Couldn’t help hoping he’d actually show up to work. Couldn’t help his lungs burning when he kissed him awake. Couldn’t help reaching out for him when Ianto looked so _lost._

Jack gathers him in, slow enough that Ianto can shove him away if he really wants to, slow enough that he can figure out what Ianto needs, what he wants, how tight Jack can hold him. He’s so _small,_ Jack can feel little bumps everywhere. And so _cold._ He tilts his head and presses his mouth to the pulse point on Ianto’s neck, holding it there, feeling the throb beneath his lips.

Ianto shudders, the material of the coat keeping any other direct contact from happening. _God,_ if Jack were brave enough, or if he knew Ianto would be okay with it, he’d sit on the counter with Ianto standing between his legs and kiss him. Kiss him until there wasn’t an inch of his face he hadn’t kissed, until there wasn’t an endearment he could think of that he hadn’t said.

But he doesn’t know that, and he’s not brave enough to risk pushing Ianto away, even a little, not when he just _got this…_ so he holds his mouth still, pressing chaste kisses to this one spot, and wishes he could do more.

When the first loud, _proper_ sob is choked out against his shoulder, he moves, pressing Ianto carefully against the counter and wrapping an arm tightly around his waist. He cups Ianto’s head and presses their foreheads together.

“Shh, shh, _shh…_ ” he soothes over and over, “you just cry it out for me, okay? Can you do that for me, Ianto? Just cry it out?”

Ianto shudders and whimpers and makes to bury his face in his hands but Jack holds firm.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, “ _so_ well, Ianto, you just stand here and cry for me…shh… _shh…_ ”

_When was the last time someone held you,_ he wants to ask, _when was the last time you let yourself be held?_

Ianto doesn’t cry it out. He knows he doesn’t by the way Ianto’s mouth opens in a silent scream that hurts to look at, and when he relaxes, his face goes instantly back into the mask they’ve all come to know so well.

Jack knows no amount of pleading will make it go away.

So he doesn’t, not really.

He gets a tissue box, makes Ianto drink the glass of water, eat a little of the food, and then coaxes him to the couch. Ianto twitches, Jack’s sure a thousand apologies and excuses are already forming on his tongue. He also knows that Ianto is the type of person to force himself to talk. So he doesn’t give him that chance.

Jack sits as close to Ianto as he can get without actually being on his lap and cups his chin again.

“Thank you, Ianto,” he says softly, “for letting me help you. You still nonverbal? It’s okay if you are.”

_Don’t lie to me, please, Ianto._

“Okay,” he breathes when Ianto nods, “okay. Good. That’s good. You just sit here, okay? Sit here with me?”

A twitch makes him look down. In an instant, Ianto’s got his hands balled up inside each other, and Jack knows what must’ve happened.

“You can, Ianto,” he murmurs, “it’s okay.”

It takes an eon for Ianto to reach hesitantly and hook two fingers through Jack’s braces. The tug is the tug of a child, terrified of getting rejected, pushed away, their hand slapped off as unwanted. It’s Jack’s turn to obey, curling over Ianto protectively.

He has no idea how long he stays like that, how long _they_ stay like that, only until the door is opening and Ianto shakes himself.

“No,” he says without thinking, “stay? Please?”

It’s dirty, he knows it, but Ianto stays.

Jack gets up, making sure his coat is still wrapped protectively around Ianto’s shoulders, and meets the team at the door. They’re panting, breathless, and more than a little giddy, but they sober when they see his face.

“Jack,” Gwen asks, stepping forward, “what happened?”

“It’s Ianto,” Jack says, “and I need all of you to keep your voices down.”

They huddle around him, Tosh opening her mouth to ask what’s happened.

  
“I don’t know,” Jack says, risking a glance over his shoulder, “but it’s not something that’s gonna be an easy fix.”

“Tea boy’s gone and broken himself?”

Jack fixes Owen with a glare. “ _Owen._ ”

He blinks and Owen changes. For a moment he almost recognizes him as the man who loved Katie. He sees Owen glance over his shoulder and come a little closer.

“What’s happened to Yan, Jack?”

The sudden softness startles him, as it does Gwen and Tosh. Jack blinks again, a question forming on his lips.

Owen shrugs. “You lot don’t pay a lot of attention to him, do you?”

At their confused looks, he shrugs again. “Part of being the doctor is having to do the physicals. You, er, get a lot of information that way.”

Jack’s mouth quirks. “He’s nonverbal. I got him to drink and eat something but it’s not much. He hasn’t eaten apart from that all day.”

Owen nods sharply and scurries around him. Jack watches him kneel down in front of Ianto and speak softly to him.

“How’d the run go?”

“Not much,” Gwen murmurs, “got some junk. Tosh started running analysis, looks like it’s just junk this time.”

“I’m keeping an eye on it,” Tosh says, “but Gwen’s right. Can we…can we help?”

“I don’t know.”

Right then, Owen looks up at them and waves them down. They all but rush down, Jack quickly taking a seat next to Ianto again.

“Right,” Owen says, in a gentler voice than Jack’s ever heard, “here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to have a quick listen to Ianto’s breathing, Tosh, you’re going to to make sure we’ve got no calls for the rest of the day, Gwen, you’re going to go pick up an order from the Italian place, and Jack?”

Jack places his hand on the back of the couch around Ianto’s shoulders. Owen smiles.

“Exactly.”

The team scurries off, Ianto not moving his head. He hasn’t moved by the time Owen’s returned, barely nods when Owen asks if he can undo his suit.

“Sorry, I know it’s cold,” Owen mutters when he presses the stethoscope to Ianto’s chest. There’s a few moments of tense silence before he draws away. “Alright. You’re alright. No breathing problems.”

Ianto nods.

“’S it alright if I tell Harkness what’s happening?”

Another nod.

“Thanks, mate.” Owen turns to Jack. “You ready?”

“…why’re you asking me that?”

“Because you won’t like what I’m about to tell you.”

Jack glances at the door. “Shouldn’t we wait for the ladies to get back?”

“ _They_ will be fine with not knowing. _You_ will not.”

Guilty.

“Alright,” Owen breathes, glancing once more at Ianto, “Yan’s in something of a survival mode right now.”

“ _What?_ ”

“What happened to keeping our voices down?”

Jack clenches his jaw, forces himself to sit back. “Why is he in survival mode,” he grits out, “what happened?”

“Oh, childhood trauma? Neglect? Emotional abuse? Torchwood?” Owen waves a hand. “Take your pick. I’m not going to try and explain everything. ’S not my story to tell.”

“Okay,” Jack says through clenched teeth, “but what’s happening _now?_ ”

“Ianto explained it like a programming malfunction. I know, I know—“ he says quickly when Jack’s about to burst again, “I’m not happy about the implications of it either. But we gotta take his word for it right now, yeah?”

“What’s the malfunction?”

“Says it happens when something happens to him that he’s really not used to,” Owen says, “something that isn’t supposed to happen.”

“But nothing _happened,_ ” Jack protests, “I didn’t do anything, all I did was…”

Oh.

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

_No, no, no, no…Ianto…_

“All you did was _what,_ Harkness?”

“…take care of him,” Jack whispers miserably, “all I did was take care of him.”

Owen’s eyes widen. “You miserable bastard,” he mutters, looking at Ianto, “no wonder you went into this so often when I was looking you over.”

“Wait, what?”

  
Owen shrugs. “Chalked it up to the fact that physical’s really aren’t fun. Didn’t think it was because of…that.”

If a doctor’s touch, cold, impersonal, perfunctory, is enough to trigger this sort of thing from Ianto, Jack can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through after what _he’s_ done.

Fucking hell, he draped his coat over Ianto. He played with his hand to help calm him down. He made sure he ate, he drank, he cuddled him in the kitchen, he _kissed_ him…

He’s pissed. He’s pissed at everyone that’s _programmed_ Ianto this way. He’s pissed at Owen for explaining it. He’s pissed at himself for not noticing it.

“What do we do?”

He glares at Owen only for Owen to shrug again, looking more helpless than ever.

“Hold me.”

Jack’s head jerks around. Ianto’s eyes are closed.

“Hold me,” he repeats and Jack doesn’t need him to say it again.

When the door opens for Gwen, Jack’s still got Ianto halfway onto his lap, Owen’s hand on Ianto’s knee. Tosh helps her bring everything down, setting it carefully on the table as Owen murmurs what’s happened. Tosh sits on Jack’s other side immediately, leaning her head on his shoulder and taking one of Ianto’s hands. Gwen presses in behind him, her chin tucked over his shoulder.

They stay there, breathing, not moving, the Hub pulsing around them.

* * *

Ianto doesn’t know what’s happened. All he knows is that one minute he’s sitting in his chair, the next Jack is there, then there’s a big blur and suddenly he’s jolting awake with several people around him.

“Ianto?”

He blinks, Jack’s hands cupping his cheeks. “Ianto, can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” he says, “why are—what’s happening?”

Why is Owen looking up at him from the floor? Who is—why is Gwen hooked over his shoulder? Why is Tosh holding his hand?

“How much do you remember, Ianto,” Jack asks softly, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

Ianto pales.

“…did…did you Retcon me, sir?”

“What? No, no, god no, Ianto, I didn’t Retcon you.” Jack shakes his head. “No, you…you just had a…bit of a rough time. Come on, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“…I was…sitting.”

“Good,” Jack coaxes, “where were you sitting?”

Ianto pales again. His place, his chair, his…Jack knows. Jack was _there._

“Shh,” Jack murmurs, “I’m not angry. But you were downstairs, right? That’s the last thing you remember?”

Ianto nods, his heart in his throat. Jack’s face falls slightly but he nods too.

“Okay. Can I tell you what happened?”

Ianto is _mortified._ He’s…he’s been so selfish, he’s taken up so much of their time, he…oh god, he’s been _awful._

“No, no Ianto,” Owen says from the floor, “you haven’t done anything wrong, mate. _We_ have.”

“No—“

“We have, Ianto,” Tosh says softly, “we’ve let you get away with not taking care of yourself the way you take care of us.”

“And that’s gonna change,” Jack says firmly, “starting right now.”

Is…is it?

Maybe, Ianto thinks when they pull him back in for the _warmest_ he’s felt in ages.

Maybe, he thinks when they ask him, gently, if he’d like to explain what just happened and they tear up in sympathy for what’s happened to make him this way.

Maybe, he thinks when Jack’s wiping his tears, Tosh squeezes his hand, Owen gets up to grab a box of tissues, and Gwen murmurs reassurance in his ear.

Maybe, he thinks, it will change for the better.

“Is,” he whispers when Gwen leaves to go sort out the food waste, Tosh goes to monitor the rift, and Owen goes back to put his medical stuff away, “is this what it feels like?”

“Yeah,” Jack laughs softly, still cupping Ianto’s cheek in his hand, “yeah, sweetheart, that’s what it feels like.”

“…I like it,” he admits.

“I’m glad,” Jack whispers back, leaning forward. “If I kiss your forehead, do you think you’ll remember it this time?”

“…only one way to find out.”

Maybe, Ianto thinks with Jack’s mouth pressed gently to his forehead, maybe it’s already changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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